Babel
by SomewhereApart
Summary: A little OQ one-shot based on this prompt that arrived in my inbox: Regina slips into speaking another language in the middle of sex without realizing it.


Regina is a babbler.

It's something he's learned now that they've had more time together, time to settle in and get to know each other more… intimately. His love, his Regina, she has a loose tongue when she's aroused, her soft sounds of pleasure starting as gasps and sighs and gentle moans, and then rising in pitch and pace the closer she gets to her climax. When she's good and truly roused, when she's sensitive and trembling, and near to the edge, that's when it starts in earnest, the whispered words, sibilant sentences about how good it feels, and _oh_ , and _more_ , and his tongue, and _oh God don't stop_ , and _keep licking just like that oh Robin oh God oh please don't stop don't stop I'm so close I love this Robin please please **oh** …_

And he loves it. Goes absolutely mad for it. Has to fight the urge to grin every time that tense and heated voice reaches his ears, evidence of what he does for her, of how she comes undone for him.

He thinks he knows her, thinks he's seen most of her colors and shades, until one night, one blessed night when the children are with other keepers, and the house is empty and quiet. There's been candles and wine and a homemade dinner, and a warm, languid soak in her tub before they'd collapsed onto the bed in a heap of tension begging release.

And since they'd had all the time in the world, he'd been determined to _take_ his time. To see to her good and proper, soft kisses all over her collar, down her sternum, over her belly and back up. She'd been whispering sweet nothings to him by the time he finished with her breasts, relentless tugs of lips and teeth chased by soft swirls of tongue until she'd been gasping, fingers tight in his hair, hands pushing, urging him lower.

"Go down on me," she'd gasped, and then, "Please," and "I need your tongue."

She hadn't had to made a third request. He'd made his way back down, found her soaked and slippery, tasting of salt and earth and lavender soap, a heady cocktail of _Regina_ that he'd supped on for long minutes, teasing her with taps and twirls of his tongue until she'd been muttering half sentences and arching and pleading. He'd brought her up, and up, until she'd cried out and out, and then she'd come, thighs trembling in his grasp, hips bucking against his mouth.

And he'd not stopped. Had slowed, perhaps, had let his tongue tease gently, softly, kept it flat and light as he'd licked and licked, and she'd _ahh!_ ed and sighed, her fingers combing restlessly against his scalp again and again.

Words leave her after orgasm, leave her gasping and quiet, but they come back soon enough, and all it had taken was two fingers into her slick depths, angled up just right, for the chorus to begin anew. He'd kept his attentions slow but firm, had pressed and pressed as her hips rolled and rolled and _oh Robin oh God Robin oh please Robin oh k-keep going just like–just like that_ (his name has never sounded so lovely as it does from the deep timbre of her sex-roughened voice; he'd deny himself for hours to hear just that sound again and again).

She'd risen up on a slow wave of half syllables and abandoned exclamations of bliss, her fingers in the sheets then, curled like claws as her torso twisted, her eyes scrunched tight, a riotous cry of bliss spurring him on, filling him with a sudden need to draw that sound out of her again, more, louder, more ardently.

So he'd shifted some, for better angle, better leverage, had eased a third finger into her just as soon as she'd come down enough from her high to accommodate the extra girth. And then he'd been merciless. Three fingers angled up just so, thumping hard and quick, making her stiffen and shout, ankles scrabbling at the bedsheets, thighs twitching. When his thumb had found her clit she'd gone downright delirious, making fists in her own hair, her belly flexing tight against the onslaught.

Her lips had been moving, quick and soundless, but at his soft, "Let me hear you, my love," she'd begun to speak in a strangled, breathless timbre. He'd thought it gibberish at first, syllables of sensation so swift as to be unintelligible, as her hips had jerked, her fists flying to the pillow to grasp and twist.

But then he'd caught half a word, something he knew but only vaguely, and had begun to listen, really listen.

Not gibberish, but not the Common tongue either. The Lowland language, the language of her father's lands, language he'd never known she knew - she'd never spoken a word of it in his presence. He's not truly fluent, but he knows it well enough to pick out the pinched and rising exclamations as he moves his fingers faster, harder, the wet smack of them against her joining cries to a diety of some kind and something particularly vulgar about certain parts of her anatomy and what she needs him to do to them.

And then she'd been flying, another scream to a god in a foreign tongue and then just wordless, mindless ecstasy. She bucks and writhes, and he has to keep a hand on her belly to keep her from wrenching his fingers right out of her by accident as she goes to pieces all around him.

He'd thought he'd known all the colors of her, but now here she is, sweat-slicked, and limp-limbed, gasping for each whimpered breath as he strokes her belly gently with his thumb and stretches the ever so slightly cramped (and oh-so-deliciously wet) fingers of his now-freed right hand. She murmurs something again, another plea to the gods and Robin grins.

It seems she still holds secrets, after all.


End file.
